


The Sunlight Clasps the Earth

by ambiguously



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Amputation, F/M, Grief/Mourning, MayThe4th Treat, Post-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguously/pseuds/ambiguously
Summary: Luke and Leia both carry their losses with them.
Relationships: Leia Organa/Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa/Luke Skywalker/Han Solo (background)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44
Collections: May the 4th Be With You Star Wars Fanworks Exchange 2020





	The Sunlight Clasps the Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/gifts).



The old soldiers call it phantom pain. The Rebellion has Clone War veterans in the ranks, and not an insignificant number of survivors who never officially fought but suffered nonetheless. In the history reels, the old battles were nearly bloodless frays between indistinguishable clones and relentless droid armies. Luke has meant plenty of people who lived on Separatist worlds or Republic strongholds who are missing an eye or a leg from a war they never wanted.

His arm ends in a stump. His brain tells him his fingers are tingling and itchy, just as Old Nibs's foot gripes him despite it having been blown off back on Saleucami twenty five years ago.

They say the new prosthetics can simulate feeling with up to 90% accuracy. When his new hand is installed, Luke will be able to feel pain, heat, wet, cold, and pressure. He wonders if his old fingers will still tingle, ghosts under the machine.

Leia visits twice per day.

She comes by during her morning break from meetings, asks how he's doing, doesn't really listen, and asks the medical droid the same question. She'll hold his left hand, and kiss his cheek, and run back to Home One. Even if Luke couldn't feel everything she does with this strange new bond, her eyes would give her away. Work isn't enough to distract her from things she doesn't want to think about.

Luke is stronger every day. Lando and Chewie have included him in their plans, and he knows they're keeping Leia updated, too. Luke can formulate ideas and offer suggestions, and he can listen to Leia's abbreviated stories of the less-secretive Rebellion strategy meetings, but he's not strong enough to talk to her about the things that matter.

After her day is through, Leia comes back to the medical suite, and brings a tray with dinner for them both. Luke used to believe Command got the best rations. He also used to believe there was nothing they couldn't do.

"Dried protein strips again," Leia tells him, setting down their shared tray as elegantly as she would a fine dish at a Senatorial gathering. Today she pulls a small, sealed container out of one deep pocket and adds in a conspiratorial voice, "I liberated a packet of custard. Two crates came in with the last supply ship." She flashes him a smile, and it's real: a sign of life from the sharp, clever Leia still inside under all her pain and self-recrimination.

"It'll be our secret."

She's more relaxed in her evening visits. Neither of them left Bespin whole. Their broken parts ease together well with the pressures of her day complete. Luke has little to share about his dull hours under the droids' care, so he fills his end of the conversation with questions.

"You'll be happy to hear Lando is settling in." Her voice holds that vague disapproval she carries for their new ally. Luke met him when Lando carried him from certain death into the Falcon. He can't carry a grudge about what happened before his arrival, not when Han and Leia's ordeals had been orchestrated for Luke himself. But he can't tell Leia that yet, can only tell her that he likes Lando. And Leia, as much as she does carry grudges, won't deny Luke pleasant tidbits about a friend.

"That's good. Did he get sworn in?"

Leia smirks. "He, ah. When I brought him in to meet the command staff, it turns out he already knew someone, and she certainly remembered him. Apparently he once attempted to sell General Syndulla into slavery." Before Luke can say a word, Leia raises a finger. "In exchange for a pig."

He pictures this. "I'm not saying I don't believe it."

"I completely believe it. She said he's a con man, a criminal, and a scoundrel. There may have been a few other descriptors. Then she said he'll be a good addition to the Rebellion because he's too crooked for the Empire ever to catch. She vouched for him, and he was sworn in right there."

"Good. I think." Luke settled against his pillow, chewing his protein strip slowly. Lando has inherited problems he gave himself. Luke will judge him on the things he does going forward, not things none of them can change. Leia will eventually come to the same conclusion.

They don't talk about Han. They never talk about Han. They talk around him. They'll go over the plans. They'll discuss Jabba's likely locations on Tatooine, and ways to break in to his hideout. They'll put people in and out of play like moving dolls in and out of rooms in a sandhouse: here's the room that's the kitchen, here's the room that's the bedroom, put Chewbacca in place there, and Artoo here. Words circling Han's absence are easier than acknowledging the empty space.

They talk late into the night, and Leia falls asleep in the med bay, slumped in the chair beside Luke's biobed. He lets her sleep for a while before waking her and nagging her back to her own quarters so she doesn't wake up with her back in knots.

"You don't need to take care of me," she tells him with a yawn.

"I would never," he says, knowing he always does, and she does the same in return.

She kisses him with a sweet, quick peck. "Good night, Luke."

He watches her go, and although he can feel her move through the corridors and cross over to the living quarters, he still feels the absence of her here, and the ghost of her lips on his.

* * *

They stand at the viewport with the droids long after the Falcon is out of view. Luke remembers doing this as a child, watching Uncle Owen head off to Anchorhead in the speeder and pretending he could see him go long after he was well out of sight. It's a way of holding on. He should be happy Lando and Chewie are off. Their itinerary will take them past Ryloth to buy information with Leia's credits and to wherever that information takes them on Tatooine. The sooner they're gone, the sooner they'll find Han.

Losing them hurts, and their sudden absence brings the other ghost in the room to the forefront.

Leia's the one who says, "I miss him so much it aches."

"I know," Luke says. He doesn't understand the shudder that shakes her.

He's no longer confined to the medical suite. His secondary spare quarters, used at need and any time Han convinced him to stay over and drink ground-apple ale until they passed out, is already in hyperspace. He should report for duty to his commanding officer, although after the battle and retreat, he doesn't know for certain who that is today, or where the pilots assigned to that C.O. are quartered.

None of this matters, as Leia walks with him through the corridors to her own cabin, the droids following as silent chaperones.

Words rise and fall in his own mouth. This understanding the three of them have shared works best without words. Han and Leia always wind up shouting at each other. Luke doesn't know the right things to say. None of them could ever make promises. Leia has responsibilities to the Rebellion and to the survivors of her planet. Luke's in a squadron with an eighty percent mortality rate, and his luck can't last forever. Han has a bounty on his head, and the threat that would take him away from them has come to pass. Talking can't solve those problems.

Leia tilts her head at him. "I don't want to talk."

He's got to sort out how to sever the link he opened by accident. They shouldn't be able to read each other's minds.

"Mistress Leia," says Threepio, "would now be a good time to go over the minutes from the allocations committee?"

"It would not," she replies. "I'd like you and Artoo to power down in your charging docks for the evening. We can go over the minutes tomorrow."

Artoo beeps a low note of discomfort. He's caught on to things far quicker than Threepio, who still isn't sure why Leia sometimes bunked down in the Falcon instead of her nice quarters on Echo Base.

The four of them enter her not especially nice quarters now. She does have charging docks, and a real bed, and a desk covered with flimsy. Luke can admit he still doesn't know what she does. Anything above him in the chain of command past the person giving him direct orders is a bit of a mystery. He knows Leia interfaces with competing in-groups within the Alliance, all of whom want to get out something big in exchange for small contributions on their own parts. He doesn't know how, and the briefest of glances at the piles of documents she's working on tells him he's happier not knowing.

Luke tells him, "It's fine, Artoo. Get some down time."

His droid warbles softly at him before rolling into the charging dock and powering down. Threepio says pleasantly, "Good night, Mistress Leia. Good night, Master Luke." His eyes darken.

Leia has already moved to the chair of her desk. She has a small mirror propped up at one side, and she stares into it as her hands move through her hair, plucking pins and unraveling complex plaits. Luke walks up behind her, careful not to interfere. He tried once, before she batted his hands away. Her fingers are long used to the work. His were clumsy even when both hands were flesh.

She sees him in her mirror. She reaches back for him, hesitating when she realizes she's taken his new, artificial hand, then pulling him close regardless, resting his hand against the hair flowing down her shoulder.

He is aware that her body is warm under her clothes. He feels the pressure of her strong shoulder. Leia meets his eyes in the mirror as he flexes his fingers, drawing strands of her soft hair through his grasp. He can't feel the silky movement. If he's not careful, he'll tug and hurt her. He drops his hand to his side.

With a rustle of fabric, Leia stands and turns. She takes hold of his hand, and keeping her eyes on his, she places the unfeeling skin against her lips. Luke feels the pressure, and somewhere inside his mind, the ghosts of his fingers tingle and burn with remembered pain. Leia can read his moods now, and he wonders if she feels the empty pain from his absent flesh and bone.

She presses his hand against her and she reaches for his mouth, kissing him quickly, desperately, the same as she did the first time they crashed together this way. Everyone else had been all smiles and claps on the back, making plans to celebrate the first anniversary of the destruction of the Death Star. Leia's face had been masked with a sorrow he'd understood only too well, memories of other losses threatening to drown them both. Han hadn't joined them, not that first time, not as Luke had slipped inside her with a deep shudder, not as Leia had come with a wracking sob.

Han's ghost is in the room with them now. He's the one full of big, easy smiles, whose heart and arms are wide enough to hold the two of them against him. Luke will never tire of the taste of Leia's mouth, but he misses the way Han's lips tilt into a grin as he's kissing Luke.

"Stop thinking about him," she orders, her voice half a choke. She distracts him with the sight of skin, her clothes peeling from her body under her own swift hands. Luke's right hand is still relearning fine motor control. He can't manipulate his own buttons. Leia takes over, disrobing him quickly before shoving his shoulders firmly towards her bed, her mouth at his again.

Leia's quarters are always the nicest, along the scale of a pilot's thin bunk through the Falcon's indifferent housekeeping. Luke's fallen asleep in a dozen beds with her hair tickling his nose and Han's warmth wrapped around his back. This bed is smaller than some of the others, and seems too big without Han here.

His left hand finds her breast, enjoying the soft feel of her skin. His right hand reaches to touch her, senses the yielding pressure of her, acknowledges the warmth of her body. Two different series of sense impulses merge in his brain, confusing and heady.

Leia takes his right hand, pressing it against her. She kisses him hard, then drags his hand down her body, resting it between her legs. "Go on," she breathes into his mouth.

"I might hurt you."

"You won't. You can't." She nudges his hand. Luke extends a finger and presses it against her, feeling her shiver at the touch. She's already slick. The moisture wicks across his artificial skin. He can feel the proud nub of her clit as he rubs, desperate not to press too hard. He's spent long nights with his face between her thighs, his tongue learning the shape of her. Now his fingers relearn that shape by awkward touch as she quivers and gasps. More, with their thoughts open between them, he can feel the sparks shooting through her at every motion, pouring into him like clear, sparkling wine. She wants to feel his fingers inside her, and he obliges, groaning at the wet pressure. He pushes in deeper, twisting his hand as she cries out in a feeling he knows is good. There. A small spot not far inside, a place where the pressure feels amazing as his digits push. His left hand falls between them, less graceful than his right before, now the more skilled in stroking her as he presses against her inside.

Leia's moan is loud in his ear, and she comes hard, clenching around his fingers. He withdraws them, and can't resist pulling his hand to his mouth for a taste of her, but he doesn't have long. Leia is ready for more now, shoving him to the sheets and sitting astride him. Her hand finds him, stroking him to ensure he's hard, but Luke has been hard for her forever, since the moment he first saw her sweet face begging Obi-Wan's help, not for herself, but for the Rebellion. He's rock hard now as she settles herself atop him, sinking down on her knees as she takes him into her body. The wet pressure on his hand was nothing compared to this. Her own hand strokes herself where their bodies join, and within less than a minute, she's coming a second time as Luke thrusts into her, abandoning himself to the pleasure.

The first time they came together this way, it was over almost too quickly. The second time, Han had joined them, growling into Leia's ear as he filled her before sucking in a harsh gasp as Luke filled him in turn. So many times after, in pairs and the three of them together, merge in Luke's memory as he revels in the feeling of her here, now.

Somewhere beyond the stars, Han is sleeping, caught in hibernation that is like death, but not quite. He's dreaming. Luke can feel his dreams, the pile of a life of sorrows replaying behind his lids, the sorrow punctured by visions of these same past trysts. He's dreaming about them.

"We will find him," Leia is thinking, rather than speaking, her faith in this as firm as her faith in the Rebellion. She's the strong one of their three, the one whose belief pushes them on their path forward. Leia points, and Luke goes, and Han follows behind to pick up the pieces they drop in their wake.

They are all broken pieces now, and Han is the phantom ache of their biggest loss. Luke has been broken and rebroken ever since the day they met, and today he is in tatters. All that's real, all that he can hold onto, all he believes right now, is in this, in her. Leia is his faith, and he comes lit up like a prayer to a vulgar goddess, his blood simmering and his aching heart singing, and every nerve tingling from his toes to the tips of the fingers on both hands reached out in benediction and a plea for her loving grace.


End file.
